Safe
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: She felt him in the room with her before there was any sign of his presence at all. (Ch 2 of 2)
1. Chapter 1

She knew it was him. Before she could see him, hear him, or, hell, even smell him, she knew. She felt him in the room with her before there was any sign of his presence at all.

At least the alcohol hadn't dimmed all of her senses equally. Her sense of touch, sight, smell, taste, hearing—those were all impaired, but her newfound sixth sense, the one she discovered the first day she walked into the Post Office, was as sharp as ever.

He moved so gracefully through the moonlit room, she was sure she would have had trouble hearing him approach even if she had been at her best. He crouched down in front of her and gave her a once-over, silently checking for any injuries. He smiled that weird little twitch of a smile she'd come to expect from him and laid a hand on one of her knees. His thumb rubbed a gentle, distracting pattern there. She watched it move—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—and waited for him to speak.

"Everyone's worried about you, Lizzy. Harold and Donald pulled out all the stops to find you. They were unsuccessful, of course, but it was actually quite heartening to see. Even if they're really only afraid of what you know."

She hadn't used her voice in hours, and even then it was only to scream and cry, so when she finally got her vocal cords to cooperate, she sounded scratchy and hoarse. "You knew where I was right away?"

That earned her a full smile and a bark of laughter. "No. This was the fifth place I checked. I'm not omniscient, no matter how useful it would be to have people think I am." She wanted to laugh, too, but she was afraid if she tried she'd end up crying again instead. Her eyes burned just from the thought of it. His smile faded. "How much of that have you had?" He nodded toward the glass filled with cloudy liquid she clutched to her chest like a lifeline. She shrugged. He pried the glass out of her hand; she clumsily tried to grab it back, but he drained it in one wincing swallow and put the empty glass out of her reach.

"Hey!"

Standing smoothly, he brushed at some imagined dust on his trousers and held his hands out to her. "Come on, Lizzy, up you go." Reluctantly, she let him pull her to her feet. The room spun; she dug her fingers into his vest as she struggled to remain upright and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Cool fingers coaxed her to tilt her head up. When she could bring herself to open her eyes, she found her face just inches away from his. "You all right?" She almost nodded but thought better of it, hoping to avoid triggering another spin. He exhaled sharply when she released her grip on him; she probably left bruises.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and started to guide her through the cluttered rooms. It was slow going in the dark, with tripping hazards at every turn. Even still, the musty scent of old paper and ink that came along with the piles upon piles of books covering nearly every horizontal surface in this strange place made it feel more like a home than her own ever did.

Or ever would again.

"I don't want to leave," she said. "I like it here."

"Do you now?" He sounded somewhere in between amused and pleased. She wasn't surprised. He showed such an obvious fondness for the place the last time he stayed that it was almost contagious. Was contagious, really. He'd been more laid back during those few days than he had ever been in her presence before or since. It was what she was looking for when she ran, why she'd chosen to run here of all places—she hoped some of that peace would rub off on her, too.

Catching her foot on an errant pile of books, she stumbled a bit and he steadied her. She wormed her arm around his waist and, before she had time to think better of it, burrowed her face into his neck and inhaled deeply. His footsteps faltered enough for her to peer up at him to see what was wrong. Bewilderment looked utterly foreign on his face. She'd never seen him so unsure about a situation before. Not even with a pen in his neck.

"What?" she said, sounding petulant and defensive even to her sluggish mind. "It feels comfortable. Safe." She wasn't sure if she was talking about the house anymore and, by the look of him, he wasn't either. He held her gaze for a moment longer, before tightening his arm around her and pressing a lingering kiss against her temple.

"I know what you mean. It was love at first sight for me," he said, his voice low, gruff. He shook himself, probably not quite as figuratively as he would have liked, but they were pressed together from shoulder to hip, so it was hard to miss. "All right. That's enough sentimental nonsense. Come on, let's get you off your feet." He shifted to better support her weight and led her the rest of the way towards the bedroom.

He left her just inside the room to tend to the bed, turning down the covers and fluffing the pillows. He stood back and inspected his work. Shaking his head, he pulled open a drawer in the wardrobe and retrieved another blanket to add to the collection on the bed.

Satisfied, he offered her a hand to help her climb in. He started to pull the blankets up, but she managed to take them from him. No matter how drunk she was, she couldn't imagine allowing Raymond Reddington to tuck her into bed. He let out an amused huff of air, again with the twitchy little half-second smile he favored.

"You'll be fine here for the night. I'll have Dembe keep an eye on the place. You can report back to Harold in the morning." His lips twitched into yet another tiny smile. "He could stand to spend a few more hours thinking he might have been responsible for something terrible happening to you." When she didn't say anything in return, he nodded and broke eye contact. "You'll feel better after you've had some rest."

Her chest tightened as he made for the door. The thought of being alone again terrified her. "Wait!" she called out, perhaps louder than strictly necessary. He was barely half a room away from her, after all. She hoped he couldn't see her blushing in the darkness. "You're not going to stay?"

He tilted his head and regarded her silently for a moment. "Would you like me to?"

"I'd feel safer if you did."

He stood stock-still next to the bed for what felt to her addled brain like hours. Too far gone to analyze the micro-expressions that flitted across his face in the darkness, she just watched him sleepily, wondering what he would do. Slowly, he reached up and loosened the tie around his neck and pulled it from his collar, rolling it carefully and setting it on the nightstand. He unbuttoned his vest and a couple buttons on his dress shirt, toed off his shoes and slid under the covers next to her.

She expected him to move close to her or touch her or, hell, even turn to look at her, but he did none of that. He just stared at the ceiling with his fingers laced together over his chest. She gave a heavy sigh and turned her back to him, settling into the cocoon of blankets. She finally started drifting off to sleep when she felt his light touch against her arm.

"Thank you," he whispered, his lips brushing the hair behind her ear. "I don't think anyone has ever told me I make them feel safe. I didn't think anyone ever would."


	2. Chapter 2

Liz woke with an arm around her middle and a pounding headache behind her eyes. If she were looking at the situation objectively, she should have been much more disturbed by the former than the latter, since the arm belonged to one of the most notorious criminals in the world. As it was, she wanted nothing more than to snuggle further into bed and go back to sleep, but the throbbing pain was impossible to ignore.

"There's aspirin and a glass of water on your nightstand," Red whispered into her neck. "You should drink it all. It'll help with the hangover."

"This isn't the first time I've been hungover, you know."

He chuckled. The sound resonated in her chest the same pleasant sort of way live music does, and it vibrated through her wherever they touched. Almost unconsciously, she slid closer to him until her back was flush with his front. He froze and sucked in a sharp breath before he tightened his arm around her to take up the slack, and all but purred into her ear, "You're right. This is nothing compared to that time during your sophomore year of college."

She struggled against the layers of blankets and turned to face him. "How did you—"

"I didn't," he said, cutting her off. "Nearly everyone has a hangover from hell experience in college. Here." He leaned across her and reached for the pills and water. She held her breath and tried to look at anything other than the chest hair that peeked through the gap of his unbuttoned shirt as he moved. "The sooner you take them, the sooner you'll feel better."

She sat up and scooted back against the pillows; half drowning on water and aspirin wasn't her idea of a good way to start the day, so she hoped to avoid it. He flopped down next to her, lazy and boneless in a way she never expected from him. She made a note in the mental file she kept of all things Reddington that this was now the most relaxed she'd ever seen him. The thought warmed her more than it should.

"Thank you."

His smile was faint and endearing as he looked up at her from the pillows near her side. She had an absurd urge to run a hand over the stubble on his scalp and slid down to face him in order to stop herself from giving in. He reached out and took her hand in his. Like before, she let him. It grounded her then and it grounded her now.

"I see a million questions dancing behind your eyes. Go ahead, ask. Who knows? I've had an uncharacteristically excellent night sleep, I might even deign to answer one or two."

She watched his thumb tracing patterns absently again as she fought to keep a smile off her face. Sleep rarely came easy for her anymore, but between the veritable nest of blankets and Red's solid presence at her back, she'd somehow avoided having even a single nightmare. It was a welcome reprieve. She hardly got through a night lately without waking at least once in a cold sweat, images of Tom's face—cold and calculating—as they caught him by surprise on a case, warring with images of a helpless young girl in the clutches of a certain sadistic dentist.

"Lizzy." Her eyes snapped up to meet his; she hadn't realized she'd been drifting. He looked concerned. "You take a wrong turn down Memory Lane?"

"Why do you still trust me? Cooper and Ressler obviously don't."

"If it's any consolation, I don't think they ever did. As for myself…" He studied her for a long, silent moment. "Some of our stars are the same."

Liz narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you cribbing pick-up lines from Hannibal Lecter now?"

"It felt appropriate," he said, his lips quirking up in the corners.

_Appropriate_. Liz rolled her eyes. The irony of her current situation certainly wasn't lost on her. She spent a few years in junior high and high school utterly engrossed in Thomas Harris's novels. Clarice Starling's quest to silence the screaming lambs of her youth, her strength and determination to move past the tragedies she suffered—it was all an inspiration to young Liz. In fact, it had been a major influence in her decision to join the FBI. She wouldn't be surprised if he somehow knew about that, too, and was needling her on purpose.

"I'm trying to be serious here."

"So am I." At her exasperated sigh, his expression sobered. "OK. Why shouldn't I trust you?"

"After everything we've discovered, I should at the very least be guilty by association. Either because I'm with the FBI or because of my…" She still couldn't bring herself to say it. Red's loss truly, objectively wasn't her fault—it couldn't be. Intellectually, she knew that. Emotionally, she still felt responsible. "I don't know how you can look at me and not see him."

He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss there. "You are not your father, Lizzy. The only connection you have with that man is biological. Sam raised you too well to be anything like him, I know that. I know _you_."

"No, you don't. Not really," she said. She pulled her hand away, opening and closing it reflexively, and rubbed at the spot his lips touched.

"Perhaps not," he said, watching her fiddle with her hands. "You do have an innate ability to surprise me. But I know it would go against your principles to treat me anything but fairly, and that's as good enough a basis for trust as any other."

"You put a lot of faith in my principles."

"In you." Gently, he put a curled finger under her chin and tipped her head up to meet his eyes. "You are a remarkable woman, Lizzy. After all you've seen and experienced, all the heartache and betrayal, it's a wonder you've held onto your ideals, your… beneficence. If I had a fraction of your incorruptibility, the world would be a different place."

"You admire me." It wasn't a question, more of a baffled statement of doubt.

He propped himself up on his elbow. "Is that so hard to believe?" he asked, searching her face.

"Frankly? Yeah, it is. You admire my, what? My resilience, my—"

"You have every reason to be as bitter and vengeful as I am and yet…" He let the sentence hang in the air. The intensity of his gaze made her fidgeting worse. She took out her agitation on her rather epic case of bed head, attempting to subdue the chaos, but only succeeding in making even more hair spill down across her eyes. He reached up and tucked a stubborn tendril behind her ear. His hand lingered by her cheek. "I admire that which I cannot have."

They lapsed into a charged silence, the tension between them a sudden heavy weight on her chest. She found it very hard to breathe.

"You seem restless this morning, Lizzy," he said, breaking the silence between them just as it felt like she wouldn't be able to handle it a second longer. "Is there anything I can do?"

A memory niggled at Liz, one she'd all but chalked up to intoxicated misinterpretation, but what he said a moment ago made her far less sure.

"You said something last night…"

"We both said some things last night."

"Stop deflecting. You know what I'm talking about."

His usual mini-smile came out as more of a mini-grimace. "I was hoping you were too drunk to remember any of that."

"Did you mean what you said? Love at first sight?" she asked, incredulous.

"Of course I did. If I hadn't been so fond of dear Frederick, I would've turned him out on the street to get my hands on the place."

"_Red_."

"_Lizzy_." He frowned slightly. "I'm not sure you're ready for where this conversation is going."

"I'll decide what I am and am not ready for, thank you very much. Tell me what you really meant."

He raised his eyebrows and made a face she could only interpret as _don't say I didn't warn you_. Pursing his lips, he contemplated his next words carefully.

"I think it's safe to say I meant exactly what you think I meant and by insisting I explain myself, you're just fishing for compliments." Liz barely had time to be surprised by his admission before he threw out a sharp, clipped, "Quid pro quo."

"Excuse me?"

"You know how this works, Lizzy. A confession for a confession. It's only fair."

Liz took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If he wanted to keep running with the Hannibal Lecter analogy, so be it. She nodded warily.

He shot her a tight-lipped smile and said, "Do you suffer from hearing loss and compensate by reading lips? I know everything I have to say is simply _fascinating_, but most people manage to understand me just fine without staring at my mouth. Although, come to think about it, I have caught Donald staring at my ass a few times, but I assume that has more to do with his belief I'm always talking out of it than any latent attraction."

Her face burned. It was an unconscious thing, the staring. She caught herself at it all the time, but being aware that she did it didn't make it any easier to stop. Even as she resolved to appear aloof, detached, the second he started speaking, her eyes were drawn back to his lips by some force she didn't understand and couldn't fight. It was the same whenever he encroached on her personal space; as much as she knew she should take a step back, put some distance between them, she couldn't make herself do it. If anything, she had to stop herself from leaning closer. Shoulder to shoulder poring over maps or side to side on concrete steps, she'd always been more comfortable with him close by than she had any reason to be. From the very first time they stood next to each other, even.

"Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy…" He tsked and shook his head in mock disappointment. "I haven't managed to survive two decades off the grid by being unobservant."

"If you knew that I—why haven't you…" She searched around for a way to word it that didn't accuse him of being even more reprehensible than he already was.

"Taken advantage of the situation? I'm not going to be the one to cross that line."

"Why not?"

"If and when everything goes to hell, I want to make sure you don't feel like you were forced into anything."

"How romantic."

He chuckled, shaking his head and smiling at her fondly. "Oh, not at all, I'm covering my ass. When did I ever claim to be romantic?"

He brought his hand back up to cup her face; her breath caught in her throat as his thumb ghosted over her lips. She swallowed reflexively and whispered, "You also never claimed to fight fair."

He leaned close, his breath warm on her skin as he spoke. "I believe I've claimed quite the opposite, in fact." Her eyes slid shut and she leaned forward to close the tiny space between them. Just as their lips were a hair's breadth away from touching, he pulled back out of reach.

"You bastard." She gave his shoulder a playful shove before she realized what she was doing (and with whom). He took the offending hand in his and leaned close enough that his stubble scratched at her cheek and his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "That was very rude of you, Agent Keen," he said, voice low and walking a fine line between threatening and thrilling.

"Oh my _god_," she whined, burying her face in his chest in hopes he wouldn't notice how fiercely she was blushing.

She felt him shake his head and peeked out from her hiding place to find him regarding her with a rather quizzical expression. "That really works for you? Remind me to throw a lavish dinner party for the next Blacklister."

She rolled over onto her back, covering her face with her hand. Everyone had embarrassing teenage fantasies, but the fact that hers had come back to haunt her like this… "You're awful."

Red snorted. "Now there's something we can agree on."

She sobered quickly. Despite his amusement, she knew on some level he was serious and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness that he considered himself beyond redemption. There were days she wondered if he was, of course, days when he seemed to be using the FBI as a hired gun to take out his rivals, but days like today made her hope he wasn't. And then there were days like the day they caught Tom, when she didn't care if he was an angel or the devil himself, because he was on her side and that's all the mattered.

"Red." She reached up to cup his face, her thumb catching on the stubble on his cheek. "Thank you. For last night. For standing with me, after everything." She returned the favor from earlier, brushing her thumb against his bottom lip, pulling slightly, but he was bolder than she was and pressed small, open-mouthed kisses on the pad of her thumb as she caressed him.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Lizzy, since you find them so fascinating: they are _very_ kissable lips. Almost as kissable as yours."

"And I'm supposed to just take your word for it?"

"No, of course not. I'm more than willing to provide you with compelling evidence up to my usual stand—" She closed the distance between them, cutting off his argument. He hummed his approval against her lips and deepened the kiss.

* * *

**Author's Note**: There might—might—be a prequel of sorts in the works about the day they caught Tom, but I am a _very_ slow writer and I make no promises. :P


End file.
